


Where My Thought's Escaping

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribullzine, And Post-Trespasser, Base Game, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, M/M, Sort of a 4+1, Trespasser DLC, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Five scenes from Bull and Dorian's life together: a bedroom in Skyhold, the village of Redclifffe, the floor of Krem's quarters, the courtyard of the Summer Palace, and an unassuming stretch of highway near the Tevinter-Nevarra border.





	Where My Thought's Escaping

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the _Good For Each Other_ Adoribull Fanzine! I'm so proud of the work everyone has done for this great project, especially Stupidlullabies/Poorlyformed, who made this whole thing happen!!

Bull wakes up as full of aches as any morning, though the sheets are softer and the fire is burning warmer than usual. The bed is smaller, too, so he has a different stiffness in his neck than he had yesterday. Some of the aches are welcome. The dragon had gotten a few good hits in, laying him flat on his back. The power of it sends a frisson excitement through his body, even through the clinging fatigue.

Also, he remembers, how much that had pissed Dorian off. He’d looked up from the ground and seen Dorian wreathed in purple flame, throwing spells directly into the dragon’s open mouth. It had been-- well. He’s always had a healthy respect for power.

He imagines he can feel it, humming just under Dorian’s skin, ready to burst outward, ready to fight. He touches a finger to Dorian’s face, carefully, to see if it’s there in a physical way, or just his imagination. 

Dorian’s eyes open, not quickly. He feels a bit like an imekari caught up after bedtime. 

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” He’s seen Dorian’s reluctant waking before, from across a campfire, but it’s more endearing close up.

“It can be,” he says, and enjoys the slow way Dorian processes the words, how his cheeks darken just a little behind his ruffled mustache. The smile that spreads across his face is a beautiful thing, wanting and warm. 

He leans down to kiss that smile, and the way Dorian’s hands slide over his back and arms is good. The way that Dorian says his name is better.

This isn’t their first morning together, but there haven’t been many. Bull knows himself well enough to know that the weight in his chest when Dorian looks at him, eyes soft, is different than before.

He’d fought a dragon yesterday. He fought demons the day before that. His life is battle after battle, except when he sits to drink or fuck or plan. And now, this. This morning. Whatever this is, it’s different.

The sun begins to rise, the pale winter light slipping in between Dorian’s drawn curtains. Bull gets up, and leaves Dorian in the bed.

He’s quiet as Bull gathers his things, few as they are-- his belt, on the headboard, his boots, by the door. By the time Bull is dressed, he’s asleep again.

Bull takes the opportunity to watch the way the sun changes the colors of the room. It changes Dorian’s face, as well, the shadows falling back to expose something more fragile. He closes the door softly behind him.

\--

The door to the Gull and Lantern hangs a little crookedly, and it almost swings back open as Halward leaves. Dorian has remained standing for their conversation, pacing the length of the tavern as he listened and talked. He feels… forgiveness feels a step too far, but his father had asked it. That suggests his contrition is genuine, though Dorian doesn’t quite want to face it. His skin feels too tight, his throat constricted and full of anger.

He walks around the back of the bar, so conveniently empty, and takes a bottle of something that looks strong and dark, leaving a few gold coins in its place. The door squeaks again.

Cadash is standing at the threshold, a look of deep concern on her weathered face. She has children of her own somewhere, Dorian knows. Her sister is looking after them, somewhere off the beaten path, and has been for years. The Carta is not the most child-friendly workplace.

The Iron Bull is behind her, filling the doorway as he looks out into Redcliffe’s town square, hands not on his weapon but at the ready. It’s a stance Dorian’s seen often, weight planted but ready to move, eyes open for the next threat. Defensive.

He picks his gold back up.

“That’s not exactly what I was expecting,” Cadash says.

“Indeed.” He doesn’t want to talk any more. He doesn’t want to explain any of it. He pushes past the pair of them, into the chilly Ferelden sun. The back end of a carriage that might hold his father is disappearing up the hill, so he turns towards the Chantry. Bull follows him.

“I don’t need to be looked after,” he snaps, but when Bull opens the side door into the apse, he goes through. They sit in the empty pews, side by side, silent. The afternoon light filters through the stained glass window.

“I know.” Bull can be a statue when he wants to. Not even his fingers twitch. “But last time we were here, there was a bunch of demons.”

“You know best, I suppose.” The stillness eats at his nerves. 

“None of us do.” Bull faces forward, but he puts his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “But we try our best, and that’s got to be enough.”

Dorian stands up. He’s not in the mood for platitudes. He looks back as he leaves the Chantry. 

Bull is still sitting there, quiet and still.

\--

The door swings shut behind them as Krem leads the way to the training yard. It’s a bad idea, maybe. They’re both a little drunk, but it sounds like a good idea, to hit each other with wooden swords for a little while. He’ll go easy, because Krem’s still a little banged up. The bruises on his shoulder yellowed and then faded in the way humans do as they rode back from the Storm Coast, but it’s still tender.

They meet Dorian on their way, and Krem, gregarious and over-loud, slings an arm around his neck. Dorian lets himself be pulled along, though he shoots a look at Bull. in the half-dark of the courtyard, whisky in his veins, he can’t quite read it.

It’s too complicated right now, to examine the things he’d like it to mean, so he follows his Vints. Krem leans a little on Dorian in a way that makes Bull think that maybe a spar really isn’t a good idea, and by the time they reach the training ring, Krem’s wilting and Bull doesn’t blame him. The ground, usually so straightforward in its purpose, is not behaving exactly as it should, and when he goes to adjust his eyepatch he nearly scrapes his hand on his horn.

Dorian, now supporting Krem with a hand around his back-- and that says as much about how drunk Krem is as anything, that he’s allowing it-- surveys the two of them.

“All right,” he says after a moment. “Let’s get your Lieutenant out of this cold.”

Krem’s room is close by, and he’s happy to stay put when they get there. He’s on the floor at that point, technically, and resists all efforts to move him to his bed.

“It’s fine,” Bull tells Dorian, who looks unconvinced.

“Staying right here,” Krem repeats. Bull sits on the floor next to him. It’s nice.

“All right.” Dorian nods to himself. “It’s fine, I suppose.”

“Hey Pavus. C’mere. I gotta tell you something.” Krem motions for him to sit on the floor too. 

Dorian compromises, pulling the chair over from Krem’s desk. 

“The world’s a bit shit,” Krem says. “Not overflowing with kindness and joy. Our troupe’s had a hard time of it, each of us. But we look out for each other. We watch each other’s backs.”

“Horns up,” Dorian murmurs.

Krem points an almost-steady finger at Dorian’s nose. “Exactly. The rest of them won’t say it, except maybe Dalish, but thanks.”

Bull watches all this with distant interest, trying to count how many bottles of the Antivan stuff Cabot should have left. Four, unless he’s got another case stashed somewhere.

Krem grabs his shoulder, startling a grunt out of him. It would be five, actually. “Thanks for looking out for this lout.”

The smile on Dorian’s face is soft. “Likewise, my friend.”

Krem laughs, and then groans a little. 

“More water,” Dorian declares. “You too, amatus.”

Krem laughs more, and Dorian blushes, and Bull is happy to be there with them.

When they’ve each had enough to satisfy him, he stands up again. “I’ll be back in an hour,” is all he says before he goes.

Krem falls asleep, his head Bull’s shoulder, long before the hour’s up. 

\--

Dorian watches the Inquisitor leave, and pours himself another glass of wine. The Orlesians give him a wide berth.

Cadash reaches the top of a set of stairs and is set upon by the Fereldan contingent. Dorian does not envy her. He’d nearly grown nostalgic in Tevinter, with nary a dog in sight.

Few friends worth mentioning, either.

“You don’t want me hurt, huh?” Bull’s still lying on the ground where Varric left him, eye closed. He’s not nearly as drunk or unconscious as he’d pretended.

Dorian sits back down, and picks up a chess piece to examine. A knight. “Eavesdropping? How childish.”

Bull grunts. The fountain gurgles. “I just don’t see why I can’t go with you.”

“You’d hate Tevinter, Bull. You already hate it.”

“That’s not the point. I’ve done plenty of things I hate.” Bull sighs deeply. “You shouldn’t go alone, Kadan. It’s dangerous.”

Dorian’s tired of this already. “I’ve actually been alone in Tevinter for two years now, and you’ll notice that I’ve managed to survive.”

“You weren’t a threat to the Magisterium before. Not like this.” Bull says it slowly, patiently, like he’s explaining arithmetic to a child. “Now you’re going to go back and say what? That they should dismantle the basis of the economy they’ve been exploiting for generations?”

There’s an insect circling his glass of wine. He doesn’t know the names of these southern creatures, and as long as it won’t sting him he doesn’t care to. “I really do appreciate how you manage to make me sound both dangerously idealistic and utterly toothless all at once.”

Bull levers himself up, leaning his head against the arm of Dorian’s bench. “I’m not going to stop saying it’s a bad idea.”

“Thank the Maker. How else would I remember?” Dorian waves the bug away.

“Dorian.” Again, so purposefully gentle it makes Dorian grind his teeth. “It’s not safe there. I want--” 

“Of course it isn’t safe! That’s the whole point. I have to go, and try to make things better. I’ve been given a chance to change things, Bull. I have to try.” He sweeps his hand across the table, and the chessboard clatters the ground. They draw more looks as Bull gathers up the pieces and Dorian sits, stiff-backed and angry, watching him.

“I have to try,” he says again, hoping he sounds resolute instead of sad. “I have to try to change the Magisterium, for the sake of everyone in that blighted place.”

“Everyone.” Bull scoffs. “You can’t save everyone.”

“Our own past proves you wrong,” Dorian mutters. Bull grimaces. “And of course I can’t single handedly end slavery in Tevinter, or mend any of my country’s other crimes, for that matter. But I can lend my knowledge and name to others who have been fighting since before I ever questioned my own complicity. I can be a tool in their arsenal, a figurehead or a distraction, or whatever is needed.”

“Distractions and figureheads aren’t known for being long-lived,” is all Bull says.

Dorian finishes his wine. “Everyone dies. Shouldn’t I do some good while have the chance?”

Bull sets chess pieces back on the board, and doesn’t answer.

“No rebuttal?” Dorian finally asks, when all the pawns are in the centers of their squares.

Bull nudges one slightly. “You’ve made up your mind.”

“I’m right,” Dorian presses. “You know I am.”

“Maybe. But so am I.” he puts a hand on Dorian’s thigh, though he makes no move to stand. 

“I’m not crazy about the idea of you dying alone somewhere in that snake’s den just because you’d be a useful martyr or something.”

Dorian covers Bull’s hand with his own. “It’s extremely unlikely that I’ll actually die, Amatus.”

Bull nods. “Because I’ll be there with you.”

His blood freezes. “You’ll be what?”

“I’m going with you,” Bull says.

Cadash comes hurrying back down the steps. “Please tell me Josephine needs me for something, because I can’t stand another minute of those Orlesians.”

Dorian stands and goes to her, excuses at the ready. “This isn’t over,” he tells Bull.

\--

He rides hard. There’s been tensions on the border, even skirmishes between Nevarran troops and Vintish agitators. No one’s sure who been the instigators. King Marcus’s newest general denied all accusations of warmongering, and the Venatori rebels are far from centralized.

Of all the things that could happen tonight, getting caught in the crossfire would be among the worst.

There’s a team of soldiers on the road, moving slowly with their torches held high. Bull sees them a long way off, and considers turning off the road. But the ground is muddy and this section of the old Imperial Highway is lined with tall hawthorn bushes. They’d probably see his path without much trouble, even as night falls.

They’ll know they saw him, if anyone asks. But trying to hide will make them more suspicious than just riding past, and he doesn’t want trouble. He wants to get where he’s going as fast as he possibly can. 

They stop him, of course. His horse stamps her feet as he dismounts, and he lets the soldiers search his bags without a word. They’re tired and slow, and he has to squash the voice in the back of his head that him he could solve this quickly. He’s bigger, stronger, he has the element of surprise.

But Dorian would worry if he showed up with blood on his clothes. _He’s_ worried that something will happen to Dorian on his way south. They don’t need any extra trouble following them.

The captain holds up the vial of perfume with a questioning expression. “This yours, vashoth?” 

He shrugs. “A gift.”

“Oh.” She grins. “That explains it. Be on your way.”

And it’s over, easy as that. They continue past him, and he points his horse north. He’s just miles away.

It’s slow going, though, those last few miles. A bank of clouds rolls in from the east, and the moonlight dims from silver and vibrant to pale, to weak, until finally he’s plunged into total darkness. He slows his horse unhappily, just so she doesn’t stumble. A biting wind sweeps down, whistling with the threat of snow, even this far north.

It holds off until he reaches the last leg of the journey, but he and his horse are both breathing puffs of mist as the night deepens.

The little dirt path is unassuming, just as overgrown and empty-looking as it’s always been. It winds into the woods and then follows a little stream through the hills. After passing through the cluster of farmhouses that surround Schmidt's old forge, now an inn, it narrows into little more than a hunter’s track.

He rounds the final curve, feeling the magic of a ward shimmer over his skin, and the path opens into a garden in front of a house. A single candle glows in the window, snow already beginning to powder the sill.

Horse stabled, he walks to the door. His heart is pounding in his ears, his hand shakes as he lifts the latch. The night stretches out behind him, cold and empty. If you could die from missing someone, he’d be dust by now.

He opens the door. The scent of pine logs in the fireplace reaches him first, and soft candlelight spills over the threshold. His arms are full of Dorian, and he holds him close. He’s warm, wrapped in a soft robe, hair curling around his temples and free of gels or magic. He learns into Bull’s chest, shoulders rising and falling with every breath as he tugs Bull down for a kiss.

Bull cradles the back of Dorian’s head in one hand, tasting the wine on his lips and feeling the snowflakes melting on his back. Dorian pulls him inside eventually, blowing the door closed with a burst of force magic rather than let go of Bull for one second.

He clutches at Dorian, touching the planes of his face just to know that he’s there. The fire pops and flickers. “I’m staying,” Dorian whispers. “‘Fuck the Imperium, fuck them all. I’m staying here.”


End file.
